Colonel Sheppard and the Satedan Kid
by Alipeeps
Summary: Shep whump story written for Flashfic Challenge One at the sheppard hc comm on LJ, with the prompt "traps/trapped".


_Written for Flashfic Challenge One at the sheppard_hc comm on LJ, with the prompt "traps/trapped"._

_All feedback/concrit gratefully received - oh and extra points to anyone who gets the movie referenced in this fic. ;)_

* * *

Shit. Dead end. Not good.

Ronon skidded to a halt and turned around, fast enough that Sheppard nearly stumbled into him.

"Dead end. Go back."

Sheppard didn't need telling twice. Mumbling a curse through gritted teeth, he turned awkwardly on his heel and headed back the way they had come, Ronon following close behind him.

"Here!" As they reached an intersection Ronon grabbed hold of the back of Sheppard's vest and roughly steered him left into a branching corridor. Sheppard stumbled a little but didn't complain, just righted himself and kept running, feet thudding heavily on ancient stone as the two of them pounded down the corridor.

Another intersection.

"This way!" Ronon took the lead again, taking them left again. The place was a confusing maze of intersecting corridors, laid out with no apparent sense or purpose, passageways often doubling back randomly or coming to abrupt dead ends. Ronon's intuitive sense of direction was all that was keeping them from getting hopelessly lost as he led them deeper into the complex, keeping them one step ahead of their pursuers. Problem was, sooner or later they were gonna run out of corridors… and the Children of Sto were between them and the exit. They were trapped.

Sheppard stumbled again and Ronon instinctively reached out a hand to steady him. Sheppard was tiring, and at some point he simply wasn't going to be able to run anymore. They needed to find somewhere to hole up before things got that bad.

"This way." Ronon took them right at the next intersection and risked pushing up their speed a little, gambling the resulting drain on Sheppard's endurance against the hope of putting a little more distance between them and the guys with bows and arrows. Very sharp arrows.

There. A low doorway, almost hidden in an alcove. It would have to do.

"In here." He shoved Sheppard towards it.

The door was closed and the control panel beside it dark; after centuries of abandonment the complex was running on emergency power only, the overhead lights little more than a dim glow that raised the lighting level from pitch black to a murky gray. Ronon might have been grateful for the cover the darkness provided but it seemed the Children of Sto had been living down here for a long time. So long that they could see in the dark. McKay had tried to explain something about genetics and evolution but Ronon didn't need to know the science behind the Children's pale skin and weird, overly-large eyes. He could see the results for himself. They could see in the dark. See well enough to aim arrows with deadly accuracy.

Sheppard leaned against the wall, breathing raggedly, as Ronon began to pry the door open. The door was heavy and, after centuries of disuse, reluctant to move. Ronon gritted his teeth and strained against the unyielding metal, growling with effort as the door scraped open inch by inch, squealing in protest. He forced an opening large enough for them to squeeze through and bundled Sheppard through in front of him, before putting his shoulder to the other side of the door and, with a grimace, grinding the heavy door closed behind them.

Huffing a little from the effort, Ronon turned and found Sheppard leaning tiredly against a nearby wall, his face pale in the gloom, his expression bleak. Ronon cast a quick glance around, taking in the details of their impromptu hiding place. The room was small, devoid of any furniture or equipment, with no indication of the purpose it had served when the complex was inhabited. Hell, for all he knew it could have been a closet. And, like a closet, it had only one door; the one they had come in through. The one he had closed, sealing them in. Now they really were trapped.

* * *

"Here. Sit down."

Sheppard didn't need telling twice; he looked like his legs were barely holding him up as it was. He let Ronon's hands on his shoulders steady him as he lowered himself gingerly to the floor. The effort of that simple movement alone left him breathless and Ronon knew he'd made the right choice. If they'd kept running Sheppard wouldn't have lasted much longer. And trapped in a small room with one defensible entrance was better than being caught in the open corridors.

"Better let me take a look at that."

Sheppard was leaning lopsidedly against the wall, his torso twisted at an awkward angle so that only his left shoulder touched the wall. He shook his head wearily. "It's fine," he rasped.

Ronon gave a grunt that he felt accurately expressed his opinion of Sheppard's idea of "fine" and wasn't a bit surprised when, despite his denial, John didn't protest when Ronon carefully pulled away the hand that he'd been keeping pressed against his right shoulder. Even in the gloom of the poorly-lit room, Ronon could see that John's shirt was soaked with blood, the material glistening slickly in the minimal light. The arrow shaft stuck out at an awkward angle, testament to Sheppard's attempt to twist out of the way. It had caught him high up in the shoulder, angling in under the edge of his tac vest. The feathered shaft stuck out a good few inches, meaning it hadn't penetrated right through. Ronon had a good idea why.

"Sit up."

Sheppard groaned but complied, letting Ronon hunch him forwards so he could get a look around the back. Ronon pulled a knife from his sleeve.

"Need to get that vest off." He started cutting through the laces under Sheppard's arm without waiting for permission. Sheppard drew in a sharp breath as Ronon pulled the back of the vest clear and what little color there was in his face seemed to drain away. As gently as he could, Ronon cut a slit through the fabric of Sheppard's shirt and the t-shirt beneath. Leaning forward, the better to see in the near darkness, he found his suspicions confirmed; there was an ugly bulge under the skin just to the side of Sheppard's shoulder blade, the very tip of the arrowhead poking out through a small, bloody hole in the centre.

Ronon grimaced. Sheppard had been unlucky. The arrow had missed the reinforced front panel of the tac vest, which might have deflected it harmlessly. Instead it had punched through Sheppard's shoulder and been stopped by the body armor on the back of the vest, preventing it from penetrating completely through Sheppard's body. And that was a problem. Because arrows were designed not to be pulled out; try to pull an arrow out and the angled points of the arrowhead would simply dig into flesh and lodge there. The only way to remove an arrow was not to pull but to push; push the whole thing right through and out the other side. All of which meant that it was actually better the deeper the arrow penetrated. Ideally, the arrowhead would pass right through and out the other side, doing half the work for you. Sheppard, of course, never did things the easy way.

His eyelids were drooping when Ronon leaned him carefully back against the wall.

"Hey! Stay with me, Sheppard."

Sheppard blinked heavily. His face was eerily white in the dim glow of the overhead lights, the skin pale and waxy. Ronon frowned. He'd lost a lot of blood. Maybe too much. And he was still bleeding. Ronon tried to figure how long it had been since their seemingly uneventful mission had erupted into chaos… since he and Sheppard had provided cover long enough to Teyla and Rodney to get clear, since Sheppard had fallen against him with a sharp cry, since he had steadied Sheppard on his feet and led him into the dubious safety of the maze-like corridors of the abandoned complex. He estimated how long it would take Teyla and Rodney to get to the Gate (considerably longer than if it had been just Teyla) and how long it would take Atlantis to be able to send help. Too long. Sheppard was already slipping into shock.

"We need to get that thing out."

Sheppard shook his head slowly. "Never remove a penetrating object in the field…" he recited woozily.

Ronon grinned. He'd had that same lecture from Carson several times over, with increasing exasperation, ever since he'd pulled an arrow from his own leg on Olesia.

"Only way to stop the bleeding." He began to rummage through the pockets of Sheppard's tac vest, pulling out a couple of field dressings, a Zippo lighter and the compact little multi-tool that Sheppard always carried.

Sheppard was frowning vaguely, his eyes a little glazed. "Isn't taking it out just gonna make it bleed more?" he slurred.

Ronon reached for Sheppard's P90, still clipped to the front of the tac vest, and removed the clip. Deftly he popped a bullet free of the clip and opened up the pliers from the multi-tool.

"Saw this in a movie." He began to carefully work the bullet out of the shell casing.

Sheppard watched him work, his eyes heavy-lidded. "What movie?" he asked tiredly.

"One of those cowboy ones with the guy that doesn't have a name." He picked up his knife and crouched beside Sheppard. "Except he had a name in this one."

Sheppard's brow furrowed. "Clint Eastwood?" he suggested.

Ronon thought for a moment. "No. That wasn't his name in this one." He used the point of his knife to deftly cut Sheppard's shirt away from around the arrow shaft, exposing the still oozing wound to view. Sheppard's breath hitched despite his care and his lips curled as he fought back a grimace.

"This is gonna hurt." Sheppard met his gaze, nodded, and sucked in a breath. Moving quickly, Ronon used the blade of his knife to saw roughly through the arrow shaft, severing the feathered flight and leaving a few inches of wooden shaft protruding from Sheppard's flesh. Sheppard gave a strangled cry as the motion jostled the arrow in the wound, his body tensing rigidly, the muscles in his neck cording. It was the work of a minute to cut through the thin shaft and as Ronon tossed aside the severed length Sheppard relaxed with a shudder, his breathing heavy and rasping, his pale skin beaded with sweat.

Ronon gave him a minute. This next part was not gonna be fun.

"You ready?"

The look in Sheppard's eyes said he knew what was coming next. "You know," he rasped, "I think I've seen this movie. It sucked."

Ronon grinned. "I liked it."

Sheppard's grin was a little shaky. "You would."

He groaned as Ronon sat him up a little.

"Okay. On three." Ronon took a firm grip of the protruding shaft with one hand, the other braced against Sheppard's shoulder blade.

"One." Sheppard breathed deeply, screwing his eyes shut in anticipation.

"Two." Before Sheppard had chance to tense up, Ronon pushed hard, a short, sharp motion that drove the arrow in deeper. Sheppard screamed as the arrowhead emerged from his back.

"Three." Sheppard was shaking, gasping for breath but he managed to shoot Ronon a look that promised he'd get him back for that one. Ronon grinned.

Almost done. He leaned Sheppard carefully back against the wall, giving him a moment to catch his breath. Sheppard's face was worryingly pale in the gloom of the low lighting, sweat beading across his forehead and tousling his hair into damp spikes. Slowly Sheppard's breathing calmed and he shuddered, letting out a sigh.

"Carson's gonna be pissed at us," he murmured wearily.

"Yeah, well. Carson's not here."

The corner of Sheppard's mouth quirked a little, his eyes drooping closed.

Ronon grimaced. His friend was weakening; he needed to get this done and get the bleeding stopped. He picked up his knife, ignoring Sheppard's involuntary flinch as he took hold of the protruding length of shaft, and set to work. As quickly as he could, he scored the knife blade along the length of the arrow shaft, holding the length of wood steady as he worked the blade into the grain, carving out a shallow trench along its length. Sheppard hissed tightly as Ronon worked, his teeth clenched, the muscles in his neck and shoulders taut as he struggled with the pain. By the time Ronon sat back, putting his knife away, Sheppard's chest was heaving, his breath coming in hoarse gasps.

Ronon put a hand on Sheppard's shoulder, steadying his friend as he held up the bullet he'd pulled apart and very carefully tapped a shallow line of gunpowder into the groove he'd cut in the arrow shaft. He reached for the lighter and turned back to find Sheppard's eyes open. Sheppard's breathing was still labored, the skin of his face waxy and far too pale, but his gaze held the unflinching determination and the deep-seated faith in the members his team that Ronon had come to know and respect. Ronon met that gaze steadily and saw in Sheppard's eyes the anticipation and acceptance of what was to come, answering the question that Ronon had yet to ask.

"Okay," Sheppard whispered tiredly. "Do it."

With a nod, Ronon leaned Sheppard forward a little, reaching around behind him to take a firm hold of the protruding arrowhead. With his free hand, he flicked open the lighter and the flame sprang to life, casting dancing shadows across the walls of their cramped little hiding place. In one fluid movement, Ronon touched the lighter to the line of powder and, even as it fizzed into sparking life, lighting up the darkness, he pulled firmly on the arrowhead, drawing the shaft, and the burning powder, through Sheppard's body.

Sheppard jerked and howled as the burning shaft neatly cauterized the wound. His back arched, his eyes rolling back in his head, even as the remains of the arrow slid through his shoulder and came out in Ronon's hand. It was over and done with in seconds. Ronon dropped the arrow and used both hands to catch Sheppard as he slumped to one side. He lowered him carefully to the floor and checked his neck for a pulse; it was there, a little fast but strong enough. With quiet efficiency, Ronon unrolled a couple of field dressings and strapped them firmly into place around Sheppard's shoulder, one on the front and one on the back. That done, he made Sheppard as comfortable as he could and then sat back. There was nothing to do now but wait.

Sheppard was stable now that the bleeding was stopped but he still needed medical treatment. What Ronon had done was merely triage, the essence of field medicine; patch the injury enough to last until you can get proper medical attention. Ronon grinned to himself. They were gonna be in so much trouble when Carson got ahold of Sheppard.

He checked Sheppard's watch, calculating again the travel time to the gate, the time needed to organize men and resources for a rescue. Without the distraction of Sheppard's injury, Ronon began to feel the familiar restlessness at being confined. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for any signs of movement outside. He doubted their pursuers would have simply given up on their hunt… but even with the Children's superior night vision, it would take time to track them, time to search every possible hiding place.

Time would decide how this adventure ended… the time it would take the Children of Sto to find them versus the time it would take Atlantis to come get them.

* * *

Ronon had lost track of how long he had sat waiting in the near darkness when he heard a noise. He sat up straighter, tilting his head to listen. Yup. There it was again. Footsteps outside the room. Whoever it was, they were trying to move silently and they were pretty good at it. But not quite good enough.

Moving slowly, quietly, Ronon rose to his feet and unholstered his gun. He crouched for a moment beside Sheppard, pressing his fingers to his neck; still unconscious, but his pulse was regular and strong. Ronon straightened and, gun held ready at his side, moved silently across the room to flatten himself against the wall to one side of the door. Holding perfectly still, he strained to pick up any sounds from outside. There. Another footstep. Closer than before. And another. Right outside the door. Ronon held his breath and wondered how good the Children of Sto were at tracking.

Another faint sound. The control panel. And another, slightly louder, sound. Trying the door. It was firmly shut, Ronon had made sure of that. Another sound, a footstep, further away now. Giving up. Moving on. Ronon let out his breath in a long, soundless sigh.

And then Sheppard stirred, letting out a groan.

Dammit.

He hurried to crouch at Sheppard's side, a hand over his mouth stifling any further sound. Sheppard's eyes shot open and he instinctively began to struggle, grunting against Ronon's palm as the movement pulled at his shoulder. Ronon kept his hand in place as awareness returned to Sheppard's eyes and, blinking rapidly, he stopped struggling. Wordlessly, Ronon held a finger to his lips and Sheppard nodded. For a long moment they stayed like that, frozen in place, straining to hear any sound in the darkness. And then there it was. A footstep. And another. Bolder now, no longer trying to move quietly. A murmur of voices. And then a scraping sound at the door.

Shit. Looked like they were out of time.

Sheppard was already struggling to rise, his right arm hanging limply as he pushed himself to a sitting position. Ronon offered him a hand and together they managed to get him on his feet. He wobbled a little, still worryingly pale, but shook off Ronon's support determinedly.

Metal screeched in protest as the Children of Sto began to force the door open.

"Hand me my pistol," Sheppard whispered raggedly.

"You gonna shoot it left handed?"

Sheppard's expression was a little indignant. "As a matter of fact, yes!"

Ronon grinned and reached around to pull the gun from Sheppard's thigh holster, handing it to him butt first. Without the need for discussion they moved to the door, taking up position one to each side. The way Sheppard was leaning against the wall suggested that it was holding him up as much as providing cover but his left arm was steady, gun held low beside his leg. Ronon mirrored his position, blaster in hand, as the door ground open another fraction, angry voices now audible through the growing gap. Another couple of minutes and they'd have the gap wide enough to fit a man through.

Ronon met Sheppard's eyes across the doorway and, with a nod, they both raised their weapons, focusing them on the gap through which the Children of Sto would soon pour. The narrow gap would force them through single file at first, making them easy targets. But Ronon knew that force of numbers would win out in the end; they'd get the door open wider and there was a limit to how fast even he could shoot. He reckoned they could hold the door for maybe 5 minutes, 10 at most.

Metal squealed as the door surrendered another few inches and a pale-skinned arm thrust through the gap, arrow already notched in the powerful bow. Ronon's finger tightened on the trigger…

…and then the room faded in a wash of white light and the last thing Ronon heard, as he dematerialized in the Daedalus' asgard beam, was Sheppard's whispered, "That's the last time I'm letting you watch cowboy movies".

_Fin._


End file.
